His Seductive Revenge

“A skeptic,” she corrected. “I do recognize a man with an agenda.”

His smile deepened. “One that coincides with yours, I believe. I have a solution to your dilemma.”

Cristina forced herself to relax. She settled into the chair and crossed her legs. “I’m not the least upset about De La Hoya’s decision not to paint me,” she said, although it wasn’t entirely true. She wondered why, all right, even as a quilt of relief had settled over her at the news. “I really don’t have a dilemma to solve.”

“You would like to pacify your father, wouldn’t you?”

She looked away from him. Damn it. Of course she would. How had he figured that out in such a short time? “My father will survive the slap to his ego.”

“How old is he, Miss Chandler?”

“Call me Cristina,” she said, stalling, comprehending his point at once but irritated that he used the ammunition. “Eighty-two.”

“In good health?”

“As healthy as eighty-two can be, Mr. Marquez.”

“Gabe.” He smiled slightly. “What if there were a way to provide your father with a portrait he believes is De La Hoya but at a cost much less than he charges?”

“I’d be interested in hearing the details.”

He lifted a leather binder from atop the desk and passed it to her. “I think you’ll agree that the paintings photographed there are of a style resembling De La Hoya’s.”

Cristina examined them critically. “These are landscapes, not people, which are two entirely different skills artistically. But I’ll grant that otherwise there are similarities in style. Certainly the artist has captured the same general mood and texture and tone.”

“What if that artist were to do your portrait—and do it well? Do you think your father would know the difference?”

“It wouldn’t matter, because I would. Surely the artist couldn’t sign his own name. My father would know by the signature, if nothing else.”

“If we somehow found a way around that problem?”

“That’s a big if.” Cristina closed the folder. She flattened her hands on the cover, curved her fingers over the edge. “Why does it matter to you?”

“Because I want very much to paint you.”

Cristina sucked in a breath. Oh, my. She was flattered, and appalled, and far too tempted. And she had a very hard time believing—

“You doubt me.” he said, taking her hand in his, watching her.

She glanced at the album again. Knowing now that he was the artist, she was tempted to take a second look. Composure. She had to dig deep for it.

“We have a kinship, don’t you agree? You’ve felt it, as have I,” he said, brushing his thumb over her knuckles. “A connection between artist and subject improves the finished product.”

She was reminded of how he’d rubbed his thumb along the woman’s hand the other night. So, the gesture probably meant nothing to him but a means of turning off a woman’s brain while she pondered his incredible physique, his utter maleness, and his you-are-the-only-woman-for-me eyes.

“I’ll amend the offer, then,” he said as she remained silent. “I will charge you nothing, and you may do with the painting what you will. You can’t lose, Cristina.”

Oh, Lord, she loved the way he said her name. No one had ever said her name like that before. Not with an accent, but with a sultry edge, a tempting—

She stood and walked away from him, trying to find a way to elevate the discussion, trying to leave attraction—no, lust—out of it. She wasn’t a teenager. She wasn’t even frustrated. Well, not that frustrated. So, she hadn’t had sex since—She didn’t want to think about how long it had been, and it hadn’t been wonderful, then, anyway. With this man, however—

Stop, stop, stop. You don’t know anything about him.

Except that he had her hormones dancing pirouettes on every cell of her body, charging her with energy, as if she could light up the Golden Gate Bridge just by touching the steel.

“Say yes,” he said quietly.

He’d come up behind her, was standing so close she could feel his body heat all the way to her ankles. She wanted to lean against him. She wanted him to put his arms around her, nuzzle her neck, tell her she was beautiful. What was happening to her? She didn’t know the man.

Gabe lifted a hand toward her shoulder, then let it fall. He knew he affected her. Her breath came short and shallow. Her perfume became more potent as her body temperature rose.

“Do you need recommendations of my character?” he asked, backing away.

“That would help.” She turned to face him.

“Inspector Leslie O’Keefe with the San Francisco P.D. would vouch for me. Raymond, of course. Plenty of others, if necessary.”

“Are you a professional artist?”

“Do I make my living from it? No. But I’m serious about it.”

“What kind of business are you in?”

“More businesses than I can count. All of them legitimate,” he added, one corner of his mouth curving upward. “I’m a venture capitalist.”

“You make money from investments?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes I lose money. It’s the challenge that appeals to me, and the work fills up most of my life. Painting relaxes me.”

“What’s your connection to this gallery?”

“I own it.”

He waited as she sifted the information. “Say yes,” he urged again when the silence dragged on.

Cristina considered all the angles. It was exhausting pretending to be so sophisticated for this urbane, mysterious man. She felt like a mouse trapped in his maze. And she had the feeling that he could drop mirrors along the path anytime he chose.

He couldn’t be much more than five years older than she, yet he seemed to have lived a lifetime longer. Being alone with him for hours at a time would be a challenge. He tempted her in ways she’d never been tempted before, was unwillingly flattered by his intense and direct gaze.

But temptation and flattery aside, she knew she could also use the time to her advantage, helping to cool Jason’s recent, bewildering attention and her father’s sudden preoccupation with her getting married.

Oh, she knew what was expected of her. Father thought he’d been subtle, but she read him well. He wanted her to marry Jason. He was in dire need of money, and the marriage would somehow help. He would be angry with her if she ignored her responsibilities for long.

It was a risk she was willing to take, because she’d never felt this pull toward anyone or anything in her life. And she wanted to experience it to the fullest. The problem with Jason would be there when Gabe was part of her past—if it mattered by then.

She finally looked at him, admiring his ability to wait her out. His patience appealed to her, showing her a level of maturity she was unused to from the men of her acquaintance.

“When would you like to start?” she asked.